A Ride or Die Kind of Love

by Chelsea Camaron

  “No.” He spread her wide and circled the tip of his tongue lightly around her clit instead. Pleasure jolted up her spine, lifting her hips even as she cried out.

  “That’s a start,” he whispered, then began to explore her pussy, tracing every fold, slow and firm. She was panting in minutes, tugging restlessly against the leather cuffs as he coaxed her body to painful, trembling arousal.

  But not over the edge. Noelle raised her head and lost herself in the sight of him, bent over her, so intense, his fingers parting her, opening her for the lash of his tongue.

  Erotic overload. Groaning, she dug her head back against the bed. “I’m never going to get to pay the price if you won’t let me be bad.”

  Jasper laughed and turned his head. Bit her thigh. “This is the price. On the edge, Noelle, for as long as I damn well please.”

  She tried to close her legs and only managed to crush her knees against his shoulders. “Oh, God.”

  Again, deeper this time, his tongue thrusting inside her before dipping back out to flick her clit. She might have come then, if he’d kept up the pressure, but he retreated as she started to tense, easing back only to begin the slow exploration again.

  And again.

  The third time his tongue darted away from her clit just before release broke over her, she lost control of her tongue. With pleasure a throbbing, frustrating ache, the words barely registered as they tripped from her lips, begging and hoarse. “Let me come, please... I’ll do anything, anything if you just—just—”

  He flipped her onto her stomach, her cheek pressed against the blanket as the click of a buckle and the slither of leather broke through the fevered haze of blood pounding in her ears. One breath, two, and then his belt cracked against her skin, drowning pleasure in a momentary sting of pain.

  Her body reeled at the sudden shock. It hurt more than his hand or the crop had, and Noelle sucked in a confused breath only to lose it in a groan as the belt hit her again, burning a stripe of fire across her ass. It was like the tattoos, sharp pain that built into something else, something hotter that left her squirming.

  The third stroke drew everything tight. The fourth made her cry out. One more agonizing slap of leather and the throbbing of her blood in her ears expanded. She was throbbing everywhere, pulsing and tensing, clenching, and it had built so inexorably that she could do nothing but groan as heat burst through her, the sweet relief of an orgasm so intense she tried to muffle her screams against the blankets.

  The sting faded into a warmth that unfurled slowly, an afterburn both soothed and urged on by Jasper’s hands rubbing over her back and ass. He bent low, his now-naked chest pressed against her skin as he nudged her hair aside with his nose and murmured into her ear. “Beautiful.”

  She shivered and rubbed her cheek against his, still floating. “You like me like this?”

  His teeth scraped her earlobe. “I love you like this.”

  Love.

  Drunk on the word, she laughed. “Would you love me with my lips around your cock?”

  “Yes.” Jasper rose and pulled her upright to sit on the edge of the bed. He shed his jeans and gripped his cock. “Want it? Take it.”

  She started to reach for him and laughed again when her wrists snapped to a halt, tethered by chains she’d almost forgotten. He watched her, one large hand wrapped around his shaft, and at another time it might be beautiful to watch him stroke himself to release.

  Today—today it was her turn to torment.

  Flicking her gaze up to his, she leaned forward and extended her tongue, touching only the tip of it to the flared crown. A slow lick brought the taste of him into her, salty and musky and intense. “Like this?”

  He urged her mouth wide with his thumb on her jaw. “Open up, sweetheart.”

  She obeyed—but not without a teasing retort. “You love to tell me that.”

  “Hell yeah.” Gripping her hair, he teased the head of his cock past her lips, over her tongue...then deeper. Over and over, pausing to let her lick his cock as he groaned.

  His next advance drove him against the back of her throat, and his fingers tightened on her skull, gentle but unyielding steel holding her in place as she struggled to relax, to ignore her body’s instinctive response and savor the darker one, the should-be-shameful pleasure to be had in submitting to his whims.

  She choked—gagged—and he eased back with a shudder. “Again,” he commanded, but he didn’t thrust forward. He waited for her to come to him, cupping her head as she took him as deep as she could.

  Not all the way, not this time. And as if she’d proved her willingness by coming to him, his fingers tightened. She only had the chance to make an encouraging noise before he was pushing forward once more, choking her with his cock as her pussy clenched around aching emptiness.

  Two heartbeats. Three. Jasper drew back, gliding his fist over his slick shaft. “Do you want me to fuck you?”

  She wanted so much. She wanted everything, and for the first time she truly believed that was exactly what she’d get. Everything she craved, everything she needed. Heart pounding, she watched him stroke his cock with his broad fingers and gave him raw truth. “I want you inside me, any way I can have you.”

  He lifted her against him and spun, pressing her to the wall. “When I mark you—” The shaking words cut off as he drove into her with one long, hard thrust. “I want more than your throat. I want the ink all the way across your shoulders.” With his hips pinning her in place, he lifted one hand to trace a meandering line across her collarbone and down to her upper arm.

  With her legs wrapped around his body, the chains had just enough give to allow her to touch his sides. She scraped her nails along his skin, marking him in her own way as her body pulsed around the unforgiving steel of his erection. “You might need to get Ace another painting.”

  Jasper’s eyes went dark, his pupils dilating as he ground deeper. “I’ll think of something.” His fingers slipped around to tease at the back of her neck. “Down your spine?”

  The thought made her groan. “Only if you want to fuck me right there in Ace’s chair.”

  He cupped her ass and lifted her higher. “Maybe we’ll take turns.”

  She wanted to reply, but the new angle was too sharp, driving his cock up into her with an intensity that scrambled her thoughts. Pleasure was building again, the kind that would wipe everything else away but the driving need to shatter that tension, and she was utterly helpless. Pinned between him and the wall, caught in his grip, her hands trapped. She couldn’t even get the leverage to move, only to squirm.

  “That’s right.” He rocked his hips in a short thrust, then backed away from the wall, kept moving until his legs hit the bed. He sat down and then lay back with Noelle on top of him. “This is what you were trying to do—ride my cock.”

  Still gasping for breath, she dug her fingernails into her own thighs and shifted experimentally. It might have been easier if she could have braced her hands against his chest, but there was something more intoxicating about having control—almost. The velvet and leather shackled her, a constant reminder of his power even as she claimed her own, lifting her hips only to drive down, taking him deep and hard, just how she wanted him.

  Jasper met the next desperate rock with a rough noise. Instead of guiding her hips, urging her on, he slipped his fingers up her thigh, past the leather, to center on her clit. “Come on me.”

  Her hips jerked. Her rhythm faltered. It shouldn’t have been so easy to haul her back up to that edge, but he had a way of touching her, the calloused tips of his fingers circling rough and fast, building up friction that rocketed through her in jolts that came closer and closer together.

  In moments she’d lost her thrusts entirely, settling into a grinding rock that did more to rub her clit against his fingers. “Jas,” fell from her lips, again and again, each time more breathless, but as the tension twisted tighter his name twisted, turned to yes, yes, yes—

  When her body sei
zed, throwing her into the bliss of release, even that word was beyond her. She cried out—groaned, moaned, screamed—coming so hard the blood throbbed in her ears and she could barely hear her own voice.

  He took over then, gripping her hips and pounding into her. It kept her up when she might have floated down, twisted her straight into another orgasm so fierce and powerful it ached. His short fingernails dug into her skin, quick flashes of pain that traveled to her lower back, higher, his hands scrabbling as if he could draw her closer.

  “Noelle.” A curse and a prayer. Jasper arched, his muscles rigid as he shuddered beneath her, pumping his release.

  She slumped forward when he stilled, and he caught her and lowered her to his chest with more gentleness than she would have managed. With her ear pressed to his skin she could hear the racing of his heart, as quick and frantic as her own, and she closed her eyes and drifted on the peace of being his.

  After long moments of silence broken by nothing but their ragged breathing, Jasper’s chest heaved under her cheek in a sigh. “I meant it, you know.”

  Her thoughts were so scattered that it took a moment to understand. But only a moment. It had been there all along, seething underneath her skin, the truth that had made everything that much more intense, that much brighter.

  I love you like this.

  I love you...

  Turning her head, she pressed an openmouthed kiss to the skin above his heart. “I don’t know anything about love. But I’ve never felt...” She trailed off and lifted her head. “I’ve never felt. Not until you.”

  “Then I have a lot to show you, don’t I?”

  She tried to lean up to reach his lips, but her arms were still trapped, and she found herself oddly reluctant to do anything that might change that. Instead she nuzzled his throat. “If love is trust and need and always feeling better when I’m with you...I love you.”

  “Good,” he said gruffly. Then he kissed her, soft and lingering. “How long do you want to wait to get your marks?”

  “Until my knees aren’t so wobbly?”

  Jasper laughed. “It takes a little longer than that, sweetheart. First, we have to ask Dallas.”

  That made her frown, though she doubted he would protest. “He gets a say?”

  “This is Sector Four,” Jasper reminded her gently.

  Of course. Apparently Dallas got a say in everything that happened, from sweeping political grandstanding to the quiet moments between two people. Though maybe she shouldn’t begrudge him that, when he clearly took the responsibility seriously. “All right. So we ask Dallas. And then what?”

  “Then we go see Ace, get your marks. And when they’re all done and healed up, we show them off to the rest of the gang.”

  “A party?”

  “Mmm. Let everyone know we belong to each other.” Jasper tilted her head up and studied her. “Do you want me marked too?”

  Her ink on his skin. Her mark, as permanent and undeniable as the one he’d place on her. “Yes. Even if I have to pay Ace for it myself.”

  A grin. “Nah. In this case, I think he’ll kick it in for free.”

  “Maybe, if he’s hoping for another show. Or a chance to play.” She rested her chin on his chest and watched his face. “I don’t care either way, you know. Whether you let other people touch me, or don’t, it was never about them. Ace, Dallas... It doesn’t matter who’s touching me. It’s hot because of you.”

  “I know.” He stroked the delicate skin at the base of her throat. “I always knew.”

  She couldn’t help but smile. “That doesn’t mean I don’t still like how...illicit it feels. Maybe I should be ashamed of that, but I don’t think I am. You like me this way.”

  He arched an eyebrow and tightened his hand ever so slightly around her neck.

  Blood singing, Noelle closed her eyes and savored the gentle steel grip, savored its warning and its promise. A lifetime without shame, because of the words that tripped from her lips, the truth he’d demanded.

  The only truth that mattered now. “You love me this way.”

  ABOUT AUTHOR

  Kit Rocha is actually two people—Bree & Donna, best friends who are living the dream. They get paid to work in their pajamas, talk on the phone, and write down all the stories they used to make up in their heads. Beyond Shame was their first dystopian erotic romance. Find them at http://www.kitrocha.com

  Undeniable

  by

  Madeline Sheehan

  Cover by Meredith Blair

  Copyright © 2012 by Madeline Sheehan

  This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each reader. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Dedication

  Dedicated to undeniable love.

  Contents

  Dedication

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  EPILOGUE

  ABOUT AUTHOR

  PROLOGUE

  There will always be a reason why you meet people. Either you need them to change your life or you’re the one that will change theirs.

  —Angel Flonis Harefa

  Mark Twain said, “The two most important days in your life are the day you were born and the day you find out why.”

  I don’t remember the day I was born, but I remember the day I found out why.

  His name was Deuce.

  He was my “why.”

  And this is our story.

  It is not a pretty one.

  Some parts of it are downright ugly.

  But it’s ours.

  And because I believe everything happens for a reason, I wouldn’t change a thing.

  CHAPTER ONE

  I was five years old when I met Deuce. He was twenty-three, and it was visiting day at Rikers Island. My father, Damon Fox or “Preacher”—the president of the infamous Silver Demons motorcycle club (mother chapter) in East Village, New York City—was doing a five-year stint for aggravated assault and battery with a deadly weapon. It was not the first time my father had been in prison, and it wouldn’t be the last. The Silver Demons MC was a notorious group of criminals who lived by the code of the road and gave modern society and all it entailed a great big fuck-you.

  My father was a powerful and dangerous man who ruled over all Silver Demons worldwide and was highly respected but mostly feared by other MCs. He had government connections and ties to the mafia, but what made him the most dangerous and most feared was his many connections to average, everyday people. People who didn’t run in his circle. People who were off the grid. People who could get things done quietly.

  His way with words and his killer smile made him friends everywhere he went—and considering he’d been riding since he was in my grandmother’s womb, when I say everywhere, I mean everywhere.

  My father’s shortcomings, the constant crime, and
the club lifestyle weren’t strange to me; it was all I knew.

  I was holding my uncle “One-Eyed” Joe’s hand as we walked through Rikers’ family visiting room. Since my father was my only parent, my uncle Joe and aunt Sylvia had been given temporary custody of me. My mother, Deborah “Darling” Reynolds, had split a few weeks after I was born. Many men would have crumpled under the responsibility of a newborn baby, especially a biker who couldn’t handle more than a few weeks without needing the open road.

  But not Preacher.

  Aside from going to prison every once in a while, my father was a good dad, and I’d never wanted for a thing.

  Dressed in an orange jumpsuit with his long brown hair pulled back in a ponytail at his nape, Preacher spotted us immediately and jumped up. He was hindered slightly by the handcuffs around his wrists, ankles looped together by a chain, and the prison guard standing behind him who shoved him back down.

  “Eva,” he said softly, smiling down at me as I climbed into an uncomfortable plastic chair. My sneaker-clad feet didn’t reach the floor, and my chin barely cleared the table. Uncle Joe slid into the chair beside me and put his arm around me, pulling my chair close to his.

  “Daddy,” I whispered, trying so hard not to cry. “I want to hug you. Uncle Joe says I can’t. Why can’t I?”

  My father blinked. Then he blinked again. I didn’t know at the time, but my big, strong, rough-and-tough father was trying not to cry.

  Uncle Joe squeezed my shoulder. “Baby girl,” he said gruffly, “tell Daddy ’bout the spellin’ bee.”

  Excitement battled my tears and won. “I won the spelling bee, Daddy! My teacher, Mrs. Fredericks, says even though I’m only in kindergarten, I can spell as good as a third grader!”

  My father grinned.

  Seeing this grin and not wanting to lose it, I kept going.

  “Do you know how old third graders are, Daddy?”

  “How old, baby?” my father asked, laughing.